Honeydew

It was 5am, sun rising, Honeydew playing with the windows down. She was riding shotgun. We were on the West Side Highway going back to her place, both of us more than a little faded.

It wasn’t really a date—more like a hazy, reckless bender on a hot summer evening in New York City. We went to the art gallery where she worked for an event, had dinner, smoked, drank, met up with some friends at a karaoke bar, someone sang Prince. The night felt endless and everything after that was a blur.

Hope she’s doing well.